


See You on the Moon

by RadioFriday



Series: Talonverse [4]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, Depersonalization, Dick Grayson is a Talon, Dubious Science, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Needs A Hug, Hurt Dick Grayson, Implied/Referenced Torture, Protective Damian Wayne, Protective Jason Todd, Suicidal Thoughts, canon i don't know her
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28071519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RadioFriday/pseuds/RadioFriday
Summary: Bruce makes a mistake.Damian makes a demand.Jason makes a decision.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne
Series: Talonverse [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2015761
Comments: 19
Kudos: 261





	See You on the Moon

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually slated to be posted three installments from now, but I've put the Bats through the wringer lately and I think we all-- myself included-- needed to pause for some sweet, sweet cuddle action. (Angsty cuddle action, because that's how I roll). 
> 
> Heed the warnings. There is no overt discussion of suicide, but if you've read "The Prestige," you already know where Talon!Dick's headspace is and it's only marginally improved here.

_I'll see you on the moon, where everyone is well,_

_And you never have to wait if you got a story to tell._

_And way deep down inside, you always know just what to do,_

_When you're flying all around up there on the moon._

\- Tift Merritt, "See You on the Moon"

  
  


Damian corners Tim as soon as he emerges from the grandfather clock in the study. Tim doesn’t jump anymore. He expects this now. This is their routine. Their ritual. And if someone had told Tim two or three years earlier that he and Damian would have a routine that does not involve trading punches or insults, Tim would have laughed that person straight out of Gotham. 

And yet, here they are.

“Drake.” 

“Demonspawn.” 

The study is warm and dim, a fire crackling in the long fireplace and Alfred-the-Cat stretching languidly on the back one of the royal blue sofas flanking the fireplace. 

“Take me to Richard at once.” 

“You know I can’t.”

It's a familiar dance, this exchange. 

Damian has tried threatening and bartering. He has attempted to charge the door on more than one-- or three-- occasions. He has threatened to call everyone from Jon Kent to the JLA to Midnighter to get him into the Cave where the Talon is and Tim and Alfred have talked him down each time, but it’s getting harder-- not the least because though they are towing the company line, they also agree wholeheartedly with Damian’s arguments. 

“I do not understand what Father believes he is accomplishing. I was there. I know that Richard is different.” 

“He doesn’t want you to get hurt.” 

“T-t. Richard has not attacked any of you in weeks. If that changes, I will neutralize him.” 

“That’s not what he’s worried about, Damian.” 

Damian looks away and steps aside, allowing Tim to pass. There’s a platter of tea and cookies on the ottoman between the two sofas. Tim sinks into the seat and pats the cushion next to him, inviting Damian to join him, as though this whole arrangement hasn’t been orchestrated by Damian to begin with. 

Damian settles and serves Tim, then himself. Tim reaches for a shortbread finger, but Damian doesn’t eat. Tim watches, but doesn’t say anything. Damian is a few months shy of 14, but has become older and wiser in the space between Dick’s exit and re-entry into his life. Since the night they found Dick, Damian eats just enough at meals to keep Bruce and Alfred off his ass. It’s a tightrope that Tim isn’t willing to push Damian off of and Damian shows no signs of faltering himself-- he was taught by a master of balancing acts, after all. 

Tim finds himself thinking about that a lot-- that Dick took antidepressants, that he apparently dealt with anxiety to the point of needing medication-- and none of them had any idea, other than Bruce and Alfred and Leslie, for obvious, practical reasons, though Jason had said that he would be floored if Donna and Wally didn't also know. Tim doesn't know why it bothers him or-- no, it doesn't bother him. Lord knows, he's on a similar cocktail himself, with only Alfred and Leslie (not Bruce, never Bruce) aware but he had talked to Dick about those issues _so much_ and Dick had never...

Dick was his safety net, at least before Batman "died" and it all went to shit. It's not hurt, exactly, but it's also not _not_ hurt that wraps its talons around Tim's lungs and squeezes when he considers that Dick went out there every day and performed for them and didn't realize that he too had a net waiting to catch him. 

“Is he well?” Damian sips from his cup and pulls the cat into his lap. 

“He’s fine.” 

“That is not what I asked.” 

Tim knows that. He thinks it’s kind of funny-- kind of ironic-- that he came to Wayne Manor all those years ago determined to give Batman back a Robin. A Batman needs a Robin-- and Tim idolized Dick-- the gold standard of what a Robin was meant to be. He tried so hard to be that and it wasn’t until Bruce was gone and Dick was struggling to carry the mantle himself that Tim realized it was also true in reverse: a Robin also needs a Batman. At the time, Damian, all angry and brutal and shitty, was able to fill that void for Dick in a way Tim couldn’t-- not while he was still trying so hard to be Dick Grayson that he forgot to be Tim Drake. 

Tim Drake doesn’t find the darkness smothering at all, is the thing, and sometimes that scares him. 

Yes, he and Damian are certainly dual studies in irony these days. Damian's genes may be Wayne, but Damian’s heart is all Grayson.

“He’s fine, Damian. No change.” 

“Then I believe your definition of ‘fine’ needs to be reevaluated. Todd advised that he is restrained at all times. That Father has essentially frozen him. Given what we know about how the Court _stores_ their talons when not in use, how do you not find that utterly distasteful?” Damian’s mouth twists into an ugly grimace and doesn't budge as he eyes Tim. 

Tim sighs, “I don’t like it. But it’s Bruce’s call.”

“There are three of us and one of him. Four, if count Pennyworth and I am certain we can count Pennyworth. If our so-called ‘sisters’ were _aware_ of what--”

“What are you proposing, Damian? Storming the Batcave to free our unstable, undead older brother? And then what?”

“He belongs--”

“We don’t know where he belongs, Damian. That’s the problem.”

Damian picks up the teapot as though to refill his or Tim’s cups, then puts it back on the tray, in an uncharacteristically uncertain tell, “Father is trying to fix him, yes?” 

“Yes, but Damian, we don’t really know, biologically, how talons are made. Personally, I suspect there’s an element of magic at play here too, but Bruce doesn’t want to involve anyone outside of the family right now and…” Tim trails off because Damian isn’t looking at him anymore, has abandoned his tea entirely, and is biting his lip hard enough that it looks painful, “What?”

“If Father cannot _fix_ Richard, will he kill him?” 

Tim shakes his head fervently, “No. Absolutely not.”

Damian nods and accepts that answer. Tim thinks they’ve dodged a potential emotional meltdown and, honestly, if that’s been Damian’s fear this entire time, then maybe Tim has managed to lift a terrible weight from Damian’s narrow shoulders. Tim doesn’t know what will happen to Dick if they can’t reverse what the Court did, but Tim is confident that Bruce would never _ever--_

“What if Richard asked him to?”

***

Drake emerges from the grandfather clock freshly showered, but there’s still blood beneath his fingernails and his eyes are red and puffy. Damian knows that Todd had been called back to the Manor because Drake and Father thought they made a breakthrough. Damian suspects that whatever they did, did not end well, as Father had emerged from the clock about half an hour before Drake, with blood on his cuffs and smeared across his cheek, wearing a face that attempted to silence Damian before he even managed to ask. 

“Father, what--”

“Not now.” 

Father heads in the direction of the kitchen, shouting for Pennyworth, and Damian trails him, cautiously, lingering far enough behind not to be noticed and, subsequently, too far behind to hear anything useful. He returns to the study to wait for Drake, He had even grabbed a third teacup from the cabinet in case they could persuade Todd to join them, and a small selection of teas, since he doesn't know what Todd prefers.

Drake sighs when he spots the tray in its customary spot on the ottoman. He has never refused to take tea with Damian since this routine began, but he wants to today. Damian can see it in his shoulders and in the way he runs his hand down his jaw. Damian will not let him run and hide. Damian will not allow Tim to shirk his duty to him. 

Damian lifts himself to his tallest, which is still a head shorter than Drake, so he thrust his chin out as well, “What did you do?” 

“We failed.” 

“What does that mean? Where is Todd?”

“He’s getting Dick cleaned up,” Drake shakes his head and steps back, but the clock has already swung shut, “I should go back down and help…”

Damian bares his teeth and growls, “What did you do to him? I demand to see him at once.” 

Drake appears to come back to himself and startles out of his reverie, “No. That’s a bad idea right now. He’s...he’s in a bad way, Damian.”

“And you left him with _Jason Todd?_ ” Damian is apoplectic. He shoves Drake backward and his head cracks against the glass of the clock face. It’s been years since Damian has outright attacked Drake and the sudden ferocity is shocking to him. Damian reads a flicker of panic on Drake’s face and relishes it, “Is he alive?” 

“As alive as he’s been.” 

“Is he _himself_?” 

Drake searches the ceiling for an answer, “I...I don’t know.” 

***

Jason emerges from the clock hours later, after Dick has been shoved into the shower and dressed-- and Jason has never been more thankful for Bruce’s pathological inability to move-the-fuck-on because Dick’s corner of the locker room is still stocked with his own workout leggings and shirts and those soft canvas trampoline shoes that Jason used to disparagingly call Dick’s “ballet slippers.” He ignores the more flamboyant leggings-- _Jesus Christ, Dick_ \-- and gets Dick settled in one of the holding cells in the medical wing of the Cave. The cells for hostiles are more secure-- situated further away from the Cave proper and tested to take meta-levels of abuse-- but they are also darker and draftier and the cells in the medical wing are intended for family, with nicer bedding and a privacy screen so you can shower and shit with some degree of dignity. 

Jason doesn’t know if Dick still has a functional digestive system, but he’s absofuckinglutely done with pretending that the guy currently shivering on the cot, hair still damp from the shower, isn’t a goddamn person. He tucks the spare blanket from the closet around Dick’s legs. Dick’s eyes are golden saucers and he has a painfully white hand pressed against his chest, right above his heart. He’s scratching at the soft gray material of his sweatshirt. 

“I have to go punch Bruce in the face now,” Jason says, then kneels and gently turns Dick’s ghoulish face until they make eye contact, “If I leave you alone, will you be okay until I send Timmy or Alfred down here to sit with you?”

The clawing gets a little more frantic. It makes Jason think of a distressed bird tearing at its own feathers. 

“I need you to promise me you’re not gonna hurt yourself, okay?” There are no sharps in the cell, _obviously_ , and if Dick tries to hang himself with the bedsheets or bash his brains out on the wall, well, none of that’s going to stick in Dick’s current state, but Jason keeps looking at Dick’s hand scratch, scratch, scratching at his heart and Dick Grayson is nothing if not determined. 

Jason swallows around the lump in his throat, “Dickiebird, please? Promise me.” 

Dick still sounds like he gargled with glass when he says, “Okay.” 

Jason nods and gently rubs his thumb over the blue-black veins beneath Dick’s eyes. There are still tears, but they just look like regular tears now, and Jason made sure he got all the damn blood off of Dick's face in the shower. 

Tim warned him that Damian would be waiting and even though the study is completely dark when Jason emerges from the Cave, he knows Damian is there even before the kid tries to channel his dad, growling, “Where is Richard?” 

“Where is your father?” 

“Did you hurt him?”

“Your father? Not yet. We’ll get there.” 

“He is in the library on the second floor of the east wing. Now I demand to see Richard.” 

Jason steps aside, holding the clock door open, “Have at it.” 

Damian blinks up at Jason and for a moment, Jason realizes that he has actually managed to stun Damian Wayne, “But Father--”

“When have I ever given a shit what Bruce wants?” Jason snaps, then says quieter, “I never agreed with keeping you away from him, Damian.” 

Damian nods and steps forward, catches himself, and bites his lip, green eyes shining at Jason, “Could I get something from Richard’s room first?”

Jason nods, “Grab a blanket while you’re up there. He used to have this blue quilt--”

“I know the one.” 

***

Damian expects to be turned away when he comes back into the study to find Drake and Pennyworth commiserating with Todd, but they make no move to stop him when Todd steps away from the door and Damian realizes that Pennyworth is holding a thermos; Drake, a plate of chocolate chip cookies that smell like they are still warm. They let Damian lead the way in their small, solemn procession. 

Since Todd left him, Richard has moved to the floor of the cell, stripping the bed completely. If it wasn’t for the shock of dark, curly hair peeking out of the mess of blankets and sheets, Damian would have mistaken it for a pile of discarded laundry. 

Richard doesn’t stir at Damian’s approach and Damian doesn’t want to tap on the glass to get his attention like he is some kind of creature in an exhibit, so Damian settles for activating the intercom with the panel to the left of the cell. Then he kneels so that he is at eye-level with Richard and places his palm flat on the thick glass. 

“Hello, Richard.” 

The hair moves and the covers fall, slightly. Richard’s face is still too pale, practically the same color as the sheets he ripped from the bed. His eyes are still yellow, still framed by the bruised skin and web of dark veins. He blinks owlishly at Damian and tilts forward so that his head is at Damian’s open palm-- if not for several inches of shatterproof glass, Damian could touch the too-cold skin at Richard’s temple, the soft curls of hair, the shell of his ear.

“Hello,” Damian raises his other hand to the glass and splays his palm flat, “Do you know me now, Richard? It is alright if you do not. We will work on it together. I am here now.” 

Damian feels foolish and self-conscious, murmuring gentle reassurance through the layers of glass, painfully aware of Drake and Pennyworth’s nervous eyes on the back of his skull. 

“I am here now,” Damian says again and watches, chest tight, as one of Richard’s hands slowly emerges from his nest of blankets to press against the glass from his own side of the wall, mirroring Damian’s gesture perfectly. 

Damian hears someone behind him sniff, but he’s grinning when he turns his head to look over his shoulder at Pennyworth, dabbing his eyes with a linen handkerchief, and at Drake, eyes shining brightly as he grins back. He turns back to Richard, who has not stirred. 

“Pennyworth has brought tea, Richard. Would you like some?”

***

By the time Bruce and Jason’s steps echo down the long stairs from the Manor, Tim has crashed, head cradled on his forearms beside Alfred, who looks ready to do the same. Jason has an impressive bruise blossoming on his cheek and Bruce’s bottom lip is split at the corner, but the fact that they’re willing to be in the same room together means that they’ve managed to work through what needed to be worked through, for now, and Bruce will accept the truce.

The lights are low and the Cave is quiet, except for the warm hum of the generators. Alfred holds a hand up and brings the index finger of the other to his lips. Bruce knows Dick is in a holding cell now-- neither Tim nor Jason able to bring themselves to restrain him again after…

After.

And neither could Bruce, really, which is why he ran away, if Bruce is being honest with himself-- except Bruce is never honest with himself, not anymore. 

“Where’s Damian?” Bruce whispers at the same time Jason also says, “Did you unlock the door?”

Bruce pales and hurries to the transparent wall of the holding cell. The door is indeed unlocked, indicated by the green LED band over the door. He is about to slide it open and rush inside when Alfred stops him, hissing, “Master Bruce, wait!”

Alfred joins Bruce and carefully steers him away from the door, “We would have called for you if there was anything amiss. You know that.”

“But Damian is--”

“Master Damian wished to give Master Dick tea and cookies.”

“And Dick ate it? The food?”

“He did,” Alfred nods, “However, he became rather ill afterward and then quite distressed. Master Damian has stayed with him since.” 

Bruce runs a hand through his hair and sighs, “And Dick didn’t... _the talon_ didn’t attack him?” 

“No, Master Bruce. I thought perhaps it would be appropriate to move Master Dick upstairs. His own quarters need perhaps only a bit of dusting to be ready…” Alfred trails off as Bruce’s shoulders tense. 

“I’ll...take that under consideration, Alfred. If it remains docile--”

” _He_ .” Jason huffs behind them both. “Stop. Calling. Him. _It_.” 

Jason’s eyes flash dangerously in the dark of the Cave and Bruce lets the subject drop. He nods and carefully crosses the remaining space between himself and the holding cell. It looks like there is a pile of laundry on the floor and the bed is stripped, though there appears to be a change of clothes on the end of the mattress, and Dick’s old stuffed elephant. 

The laundry pile shifts. Bruce recognizes the tattered blue quilt from Dick’s room-- a relic from his family's trailer at Haly’s-- and then he can see Dick and Damian clearly. Damian has curled around Dick, sleeping, nose pressed to Dick’s collarbone. Dick has one cheek pressed to the top of Damian’s head and he doesn’t move when Bruce approaches-- only his bright yellow eyes flick upwards to latch onto Bruce’s gaze. 

Bruce knows this look. Bruce has seen it enough times when those eyes were blue and alive-- really alive-- has seen it directed at himself in the middle of a lecture, at the rogues, mid-monologue, and at any JLA-er who dared make the mistake of implying that Nightwing was anything less than a hero in his own right. Trained by Batman, yes, but not _beholden_. 

Dick Grayson had-- _has--_ no masters. 

Dick doesn’t blink as he slowly brings a hand to his chest, palm flat against his heart, then curling the blue-tinged fingers like a claw. He drags it down the front of his chest. Dick’s gaze doesn’t waver. 

Bruce mouths, “No.” 

But he doesn't know if he believes it. 

  
  



End file.
